Nature is a haunted house--but Art--is a house that tries to be haunted.

Is Bliss then, such Abyss, I must not put my foot amiss For fear I spoil my shoe? I'd rather suit my foot Than save my Boot -- For yet to buy another Pair is possible, At any store -- But Bliss, is sold just once. The Patent lost None buy it any more --

... I have no letter from the dead, yet daily love them more.

When he tells us about his Father, we distrust him. When he shows us his Home, we turn away, but when he confides to us that he is acquainted with grief, we listen, for that also is an acquaintance of our own.

Judge tenderly of me.

Drunkards of summer are quite as frequent as Drunkards of wine.

Mirth is the Mail of Anguish --